


Poppies, Lilacs & Forget-Me-Not

by Splittergheist



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017), Hotel Artemis (2018), Long Shot (2019), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover Pairings, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Immortality, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splittergheist/pseuds/Splittergheist
Summary: A crossover soulmate AU fanfic about destiny, reincarnation and immortality.  Some people meet their soulmates in ways that are convenient, some meet them never. The worst, though, is when they meet them at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Or, perhaps, worse than that, is if it happens twice.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Lorraine Broughton/Delphine Lasalle
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	1. Berlin, 1989 ー 01. Like A Car Crash I Can't Look Away From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine is sent on a mission to Berlin - and is welcomed with all the warmth of a city stuck in the Cold War.

At some point, Lorraine thought, she would stop tasting the blood on her lips. Stop feeling the bruises blossom on her icy white skin. At some point, there wouldn't be any emotions left running through her veins anymore whenever she shot someone, she somehow was sure of that. It would come slowly, and by the time she'd realize, it'd be long too late to stop it from happening. It likely should've concerned her far more than it did, but the agent thought it fit her current job best, so why bother? 

There was _one_ reason why, but a part of her didn't even believe she'd be that lucky; if she hadn't run into her soulmate by now, then, well. With every mission she took, the risk of her dying before she'd ever lay eyes on them increased by tenfold, and missions she took a lot. Partly, because of her "lack of faith", how some of her friends called it, partly, because it was generally seen as the kind thing to do to leave the paperwork and the easy missions to the ones that had already found their soulmates, so the risks of them dying or losing each other stayed slim. _Least we compromise the mission, huh?_ She knew it was petty, but Lorraine hadn’t taken this job to make friends.

They’d sent her to Berlin after someone up and killed Gascoigne. _James_. They believed Yuri Bakhtin had done it, some agent of the KGB she hadn't heard about before. It hardly mattered. She was supposed to play the lawyer taking James' body home from the Berlin morgue he was now resting inside of. She regretted not having called during the last days and weeks. Some part of her brain wondered whether she could've saved him in any way. The stupid part of her brain, surely, because affairs among agents may not have been against the rules, but they were frowned upon. Not to mention the whole _why aren't you waiting for the one_ thing people loved to get into whenever she brought up sleeping around. And even if societal rules personally mattered very little to her when it came to making decisions, she didn’t want to be seen as weak. The men above her, the men working with her, they all would’ve gladly taken an excuse to scare her away and out of the agency, and she couldn’t let that happen.

Well, there had been a lot of lovers over the years, and Lorraine had moved on from all of them, she would move on from James too, though his death hit hard, somehow. They hadn't been soulmates, no, but to Lorraine it didn't matter because they had been close; she wanted to live her life and waiting for _the one_ seemed ridiculous. She's shared beds with so many other people who were also desperate, or just didn't care. And they both had enjoyed the time they'd had. She’d see to getting his body out of that godforsaken city; was the least she could do to show her care, even if ghosts were another thing she didn’t believe in.

Yet, that wasn't the only thing she was here for. There was a _list_ in existence. Microfilm, built into a watch. And it had every agent of any nation currently in Berlin or close to the happenings there on it, with details, credentials, and official and secret identities. The MI6 was worried, naturally, that if that list got out, people would die and the Cold War would continue for another 40 years. Her actual job was to get it out and hand it over, maybe even deliver Satchel to them, a double agent that had been a thorn in their side for years at this point. Basically, Lorraine was supposed to save their asses and make it all look nice. Wrap up all the loose ends so none of them would catch fire and ignite the fuse of the tinderbox that was Berlin right now. That kind of damage had the potential to tear a giant hole into the Allied powers' support structure, and _that_ would open up the way for the Eastern powers to come storming in, which, of course, the MI6 wanted to avoid at all cost.

She didn't get much time to breathe in the Berlin air, before some guy who was distinctively _not_ Percival came jogging. **"Ms Broughton? Mr Percival can't make it in time and told me to pick you up instead."** In the back of Lorraine's mind all alarm bells went off, but a short glance around made it clear that the man was telling the truth about one thing: No David Percival in sight anywhere. Well, fuck. **"You need to pick up luggage?"**

Meeting his gaze, the cogwheels in her head were turning quickly, desperately trying to formulate a plan to get out of this and knock him unconscious before he'd realize she's figured out his intentions the moment he'd asked his first question. **"No, they were sent ahead."** She let him pack her big sports bag and her rolling suitcase into the trunk, slinking into the backseat where another guy was waiting. He didn't say anything and just nodded to her in what she assumed was supposed to be a greeting. The front door was pulled shut. Lorraine spotted the gun inside her backseat company's coat, before he quickly covered it. They rolled out of the parking lot of the airport, into the streets of Berlin. 

**"Is this your first time in Berlin?"** came from the front seat, the driver trying his best to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror for a polite moment. 

Lorraine took a breath. **"Yes."**

Somehow that seemed to please the driver as he dived right into recommendations. **"It's an exciting time to be here at the moment. Thrilling nightlife, marvelous restaurants. You must try the Central Café for a drink,"** he told her, awkwardly holding a card out to her over his shoulder and the headrest of his seat. **"You'll need it later."** And the way he pronounced _later_ she absolutely caught the hidden meaning, even before he continued. With the same, seemingly conversational tone, he asked: **"You remember Mr Bremovytch, don't you?"** She'd _known_ it. Her muscles tensed in preparation of a fight. The execution of which she currently ran as a simulation in her head, all the while appearing distant and as calm on the outside as was possible, while slowly taking off her shades and pushing them into her handbag. Clearly, the question had been purely rhetorical, since he answered it himself only a moment later: **"Of course you do."** She was generally good at improvising, but the fact that Mr Bremovytch was asking her for a meeting _like this_ , forcing her to make it seem as if she'd been made the moment she touched ground in Berlin, was throwing her for a loop, quite frankly. He likely wanted to talk to her somewhere and some _when_ Percival might not see them, or that was, what she assumed was the purpose of this. Certainly to talk to her about the List and how she was to drop it off into his lap once she's found it. _Bad timing_ , was all she thought, as she grabbed and pocketed the card, and then reached down to slip one of her red pumps off her foot. **"Well, he's very curious what you're doing here in Berlin."**

Another breath taken. Her fingers wrapped around it, grasping it in a way that allowed her to use the pencil heel as a weapon - and next second, without any warning, she began smashing it into the general area of her seat partner's chest and neck. **"What the fuck are you _doing?!_ "** the guy on the front seat yelled alarmed, as she proceeded to get the other guy out of the car by pushing him against his door. Red filled the cracks of the window his head violently connected with. A gun was drawn and she just so managed to grab the hand holding it and aim it into the ceiling before two shots rang out. The door opened, whether on accident or because he tried to save his skull from getting bashed in, by giving himself more room, she couldn't tell, nor did she care. An arm from the front of the car tried to stop her, but Lorraine swung her elbow into the direction of his face, and when it connected, he yelped and leaned back into his seat, likely to protect himself or maybe to catch a breath - or get the control over the car back - before trying anew. That window of opportunity, Lorraine used and unfastened his seatbelt. She managed to kick the other guy out of the car entirely and only at the edges of her awareness did she hear a car behind them swerve to avoid running him over. 

With the uncertain energy of a plan she had only just made up a literal minute ago, Lorraine grabbed into the steering wheel, and abruptly turned it to the right side; within the few seconds before they impacted with a roadwork construct that was supposed to separate the lanes while the road was being worked on, the agent leaned back, wrapped her own seatbelt around herself and curled up to minimize the risk of injury when the car inevitably ran against the construct that acted like a ramp, and turned on its ceiling. Glass shattered quite impressively. The front crashed against another one of these half-walls made of stone. A deep sigh escaped her. Then, she heard steps coming nearer and immediately drew her gun. A face appeared in the hole that was usually occupied by the door: **"Welcome to Berlin. I'm Davi—"**

She fired a shot - at this point mostly because she was so extremely _done_ and not because she legitimately thought he was one of the bad guys also - that he just so evaded. **"Where the fuck were you?!"** She'd immediately recognized Percival.

 **"Don't shoot! I got you' shoe!"** He bravely held the red pump that had somehow fallen out of the car sometime during the spin into her field of vision. Lorraine just sighed and crawled out of the vehicle, not letting him help her up, but grabbing the pump and slipping it back on. **"Let me help you with your luggage,"** he gave, half a joking spark echoing from his words as he pressed the button of the trunk release, causing the bag and suitcase to unceremoniously fall onto the street.

 **"For fuck's sake,"** Lorraine mumbled, more to herself than him, grabbed her bags and followed him to the other car. Percival dragged the driver into his own car's trunk - she was glad she _had_ managed to knock him out, even if, perhaps, turning the car on its head had been a tad overkill - and punched him in the face another time for good measure when it seemed as if he was gonna wake up again. **"I was made the moment I touched ground."** It was an easy lie, because it wasn't technically untrue at all. She pushed her bags onto the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

He just shook his head and threw the trunk lid shut. **"You're not made."** A beat. **"I hope."** Either he didn't truly care, or he was convinced they'd get her out of this somehow, no matter how grim it looked right now.

 **"They knew my name!"** she told him, halfheartedly trying to make him realize the severity of the situation that he seemingly wasn't grasping.

He paused, meeting her gaze. **"That's troubling."**

 **"And yours,"** she continued.

That, however, made him grin and turn the keys. **"That, on the other hand, is hardly surprising."** He seemed proud of it, as if he'd worked hard to make it to _local hero_ in this city and finally it was paying off.

What that meant for her, the mission, and her time here in Berlin, she couldn't predict yet, but she allowed herself a guess. **"Great fucking start, Percival,"** Lorraine mumbled, closing her eyes for a moment. He meant trouble, in some way or form, _that_ she could already tell, and given how careful she had to be to get the List out of the city and to her actual supervisors, she was in no mood for surprises. Already now Lorraine had a feeling Percival had gotten too comfortable here, and when the moment would come to question loyalties, she didn't want to be the one asking those questions.

Though, with the way he drove this car, swerving around the others currently driving on the street, it seemed questionable whether they wouldn't get into an accident before that could happen. 

With her nerves slowly relaxing, the agent actually _looked_ at her company for the first time in the last five minutes. David Percival seemed to be in his mid-thirties if she had to take a guess, and except for the horrid, short hair that reminded her of Sinead O'Connor, he wasn't bad to look at. She couldn't decide whether the cig dangling from his lips was a feature or a turn-off, but it was hardly important. One of his arms was stuck in a cast. **"What's with the hair?"** Lorraine asked eventually, feeling her own move around her jaw with the violent motions of the car.

 **"You wanna touch it?"** He leaned his head a tad closer to her, rubbing over the barely existent stubble with the hand that had grasped the cigarette and nearly sprinkled ash into her lap. She didn't make a motion to touch it. **"It's to blend in the East,"** he explained instead, and leaned back into his seat. **"That was the Brandenburg Gate, by the way."** A sigh escaped him before he took another drag and pointed somewhere behind himself. **"I mean, how does M even think you're gonna be able to help me find this list?"** It was a sudden change of topic, but it made her relax, funnily enough, even though she didn't have a satisfying answer. **"The moment you pick up Gascoigne's body, they're gonna null-and-void your visa and you're gonna be on the first flight home."** He trusted her. And even if not, it was okay, because more importantly: Percival was convinced they were on the same side, and as long as that was true, she wouldn't run into a lot of troubles.

Just as calm and relaxed was her answer. **"I'll figure something out."** Maybe change one of the numbers on the pick-up sheet she needed for the morgue. That would give her enough time to establish a network around here - or at least get her foot in a door - and then it'd be easy to find that list, if it hadn't been sold off yet. Bakhtin hadn't left the city yet, so it seemed unlikely he was intending to hand it over to Bremovytch. Which was likely the explanation for why they'd picked her up at Tempelhof to get the address of that café into her hands without David intercepting. They wanted her to take out Bakhtin and retrieve the list. How desperate. 

She could tell he didn't really like that answer, but it was good enough for now. **"That's Checkpoint Charlie. My office is just down that street here."** Another finger pointed left.

 **"I'm not here to collect postcards, Percival. Just drop me off at my hotel, it's right around that corner on the right."**

Not happy that she was interrupting him, he seemed it necessary to shoot her a side-glance. **"I thought you never been to Berlin before?"** It was impossible to tell whether he was simply annoyed she wasn't as excited about a sightseeing tour as he wanted her to be, or whether she's hurt his pride and now he had to make sure she knew her place. But, whatever the case, she didn't let him think she was a damsel who'd walked into this job wearing pink shades or a blindfold.

 **"I can read a fuckin' map,"** Lorraine simply told him, a slight edge to her words; just enough to establish herself, not so much as to start a fight she knew to be useless. Because what was the point in trying to explain to a man like him that women weren't stupid and weak, right? He'd just take it like she felt the need to defend herself, and that would clearly have been a sign of weakness. Or maybe he'd pretend he had no idea why she was so upset because he was clearly the epitome of progression.

Either way, it seemed like Percival had gotten the hint. **"Okay, this won't take long."** Parking the car next to one of those Soviet barter shops, David jumped out of the car and retrieved the driver from the front trunk. The blood on the guy's face had barely started drying up. As he was dragged across the concrete, tiny pieces of the front screen stuck to his hair and clothes got shaken loose and scattered onto the sidewalk.

Lorraine frowned, then opened her door and got out. **"What are you doing?"** It wasn't like they were _many_ people around, but they weren't alone either, and she couldn't imagine any cop or similar taking calmly to seeing some guy in a— was that a cop's coat Percival was wearing?!

 **"Sending a message to a fascist pig."** The way he said it, Lorraine felt confirmed in her initial guess. Truth in the statement aside, he sounded like a man who'd lived in this city for too long to still truly work for his initial employers. Officially, of course, he was still doing missions, just like this one right now, but something told her, he'd become a tad too comfortable in that role he was supposed to play here. Who knew whether he still knew how to take that mask off at all. 

David propped the driver against the window front, which caused the man Lorraine hadn't even gotten a name from to groan in pain. About to turn back to the car, Percival seemed to think better of it, grabbed the Russian's tie, pulled him up and a bit closer to his face, and then said: **"Say _Hi_. to comrade Bremovytch for me,"** before knocking him out a second time and sprinting back to the vehicle.


	2. Berlin, 1989 — 02. Let Us Paint The Scenery In A Colour We Can See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine notices an admirer and gets an unannounced visitor.

For a November morning, Lorraine thought it was almost warm. At the very least compared to the temperatures inside the morgue. James wasn't the only body lying underneath a cloth and on top of a steel table, but when the morgue clerk lifted the cloth off his face, there could've been hundreds of other bodies, Lorraine wouldn't have spared any of them a single glance. Was it okay to say that it looked less bad than she'd somehow feared it to be? Blue lips, likely from the water Bakhtin had thrown him into; they'd fished him out of the Spree the morning after. He'd been lucky, in that regard at least. Water could destroy a body quickly. A black and blue eye. A cut in his lips. And, well, of course the shot wound right in the middle of his forehead. It was a stark difference to when she'd seen him last, the blanket pooling around his head like a halo. **"The passport numbers don't match up."** The annoyed, cold voice of the other woman dragged her out of that particular memory. **"I can't release the body with incomplete paperwork."**

Lorraine's blue eyes met hers. **"It's a simple mistake,"** she tried, even if not very passionately.

 **"Ms Loyd, we don't make simple mistakes around here,"** was all she got in reply, **"You have to come back with the correct papers."** Her glance made it clear that she wouldn't be swayed - and Lorraine felt relief wash over her. That had been almost too easy. 

The fresh autumn air brushed through her hair like a long-lost lover returning from the war. For moments, she stopped atop the staircase, letting the wind try its dearest to get underneath her coat. _Click_. It was subtle, barely audible. _Click_. The shutter of a camera was triggered somewhere to her right. _Click_. Again. _Click_. And again. _Click_. And _again_. Lorraine reached for the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket and fished one of them out of its package alongside the lighter. Lit it up. Another _click_. Slowly, she started turning her head, pretending to admire the trees and the architecture from her elevated vantage point. Until, in the corner of her peripheral, she spotted a woman on a motorcycle, camera in hand, and stopped the turn of her neck. She thought to recognize her from Tempelhof airport. Dark hair, black leather jacket - she'd been standing in a telephone box, and the agent hadn't paid her much mind then.

Carefully shifting the camera around so it was dangling from its band down her side, the photographer suddenly turned the key in the ignition, put her helmet back on, and drove off. Lorraine watched her leave, her head fully turned now that she only saw her back. She hadn't looked like one of the Russians, but that didn't have to mean anything. A Brit, maybe? A French spy? It didn't make too much sense for Kurzfeld to send one of their own agents after her, so it was unlikely she was American. Just _how many_ parties were involved in this game? And how many pawns would lie dead at the end of this, kicked off the board by bishops and queens? Who was the king in this scenario anyway? Did it truly matter as long as she wouldn't turn up dead?

Of course, she could've taken the tram home - or to her hotel, more like - but instead Lorraine decided to walk. Get a feel for this city. Get ahead of Percival whom she trusted only as far as she could throw him. Stick out her feelers and hope she'd find something, an untapped source that David wasn't aware of. 

Change was in the air, that was impossible to deny. A tension wrapped around her lungs everytime she breathed in. The sun may have been shining, but there was no denying the coldness in some people's faces. The hushed whispers. The glares some of the policemen sent towards people simply passing them by. Graffiti sprayed too high up for a quick paint-over told stories of threatening politicians hunting down the rebels. It spoke of a deep desire for freedom, and the further she approached the Wall, the more it felt like people were holding their breaths. There was no telling what would come out when they all exhaled - a sigh? A _scream_?

The newscaster confirmed her suspicions later that day, as he talked about riots near the Wall, about how the police was using teargas and water to silence the protesters. She let the TV run while she poured a whole bag of ice cubes into the water she'd filled the bathtub with, and then undressed. It was impossible to recall when she'd started doing these ice baths, but it had to have been somewhen after her second or third mission. Initially to soothe the physical pain of torn skin and bruised arms and knees and cheeks; when she sank down now, it was to shut out the world for as long as she was able to hold her breath. Try to soothe wounds she had long given up the hopes of them ever healing. If she just stayed down there long enough, maybe it would stop mattering. _Maybe_ the world would stop spinning for three minutes and let her breathe for once. James was another cut across her soul, in a whole row of scarred lines spelling out _death_ , most likely. He'd been simply unlucky, running into Bakhtin. If she'd been here...

Coming up for air, Lorraine stemmed her arms against the rim, and there were only two things she could feel clearly: The air entering and exiting her lungs, pushing her heart into a run, and the tension tremors running up her forearms, again and again. The truth of the matter was, that there was nothing to say she could've done anything to save James. It was senseless to think otherwise, to spend days and weeks turning it over and over in her head. James was _dead_. Bakhtin wasn't _yet_ , and she'd make sure to fix that while she hunted down that stupid List. That was the extent of what she could do for him, and she knew it too.

Her hair was still damp to the touch when she walked back into the bedroom, wearing a pair of comfortable leggings and her over-sized Bowie shirt. About to head to her bed, the agent suddenly stopped; it was a _hunch_ , something like an alarm going off at the back of her head. She wasn't alone anymore.

Grabbing an empty vodka bottle, she dropped the towel and took another, careful step around the corner of the hallway. Violently, she swung it against whomever was waiting for her there, watching it shatter against a forearm cast. The sheets of paper Percival had been holding fluttered to the ground. Lorraine grabbed his arm, punched him in the ribs, and in one swift motion threw him onto her bed and climbed atop of him, her hand resting around his throat. The cigarette he'd been smoking now dangerously stuck out between his lips; one wrong motion and it was gonna sprinkle ash onto his cheek. She tilted her head. **"I'm not gonna lie, I'm impressed. You've got some balls breaking in here."** How had he even managed that?

Behind the cigarette, David grinned up at her. **"You should _see_ my balls, then you'd be really impressed."**

Swallowing a sigh, Lorraine merely huffed. **"I'll take your word for it."** Her gaze skipped back to where he'd been standing, then to the door. No sign of forced entry.

 **"You've wrote a 16 instead of a 76 onto his papers."** Her head snapped back. **"That's smart. They're not gonna release the body until they've investigated that red tape nightmare you created."** He did actually sound impressed, speaking around that cigarette slowly burning down between his lips.

She let him think it mattered to her. **"I'm gonna stay another week at least."**

 **"Well, lucky fucking me."** His grin had something creepy about it, but she was more than aware of her position atop him and her power to just choke him out if only she wanted, and that helped with not thinking too hard about his intentions. Of course he'd think he had power over her. Every guy at the agency likely did. Lorraine liked to let them believe it until she could turn the tables around and use the fact that they'd underestimated her against them. Thinking back, she could've cited this exact moment as the one where she decided to pin this whole thing on him. James' death, Satchel, the list going missing. It was unlikely she'd manage all three, but hell, she was gonna try.

She gently plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and took a drag herself. **"How did you even get in here?"**

A huff escaped him. **"I've been here for years, Lorraine. I think I know every bouncer and bellhop of every half-decent shithole on both sides of the wall."** Ah, of course. But if that was true - and she didn't have any reason to believe it wasn't - then it made sense if he knew Spyglass too, right? The man had to be living in hiding _somewhere_ around this town, didn't he?

**"That means you know Spyglass, then?"**

There was a pause, then he blinked and said: **"Never met the fella. He was James'."** His tone she took as regret, or maybe frustration because he hadn't been given this assignment that had turned out to be huge - if deadly. It made sense he'd be mad about that. Right from the beginning, David Percival had struck her as someone living at the limit, and feeling like he deserved to be served the world on a silver platter. 

Snipping the ash into an ashtray on the bedside table, she looked at him for a moment, then decided to keep that observation to herself. **"What do you know about the woman that's been following me since Tempelhof?"** She didn't truly know why she asked him of all people. Maybe she thought it was good to make it seem like she trusted him, like she cared about his opinions, wisdom and verdicts; would help later, when she had to go up against him in the final act of this drama. And somehow she was sure that was what was gonna happen. All that was missing still was the metaphorical glove thrown right into her face in the hopes she wouldn't notice.

 **"Well, I'd say you're an attractive woman and you should do the math."** He paused again, slowly letting the grin he'd had on his face for nearly the entire time lying underneath her turn even wider. He was tasting the words before he spoke them, and they had just enough lighthearted joking to them that it wouldn't seam like a threat. **"I** **f _I_ wanted to follow you - like _properly_ follow you? You'd never fucking know."** And there it was - the glove, thrown into her face in a way that was possible to miss. She noticed the underlying tone of danger - of course she did - she just pretended she didn't. Let him think his trap had been set perfectly and she was gonna step right into it anytime soon. He still thought she was beneath him. He still underestimated her, and that was all that truly mattered to Lorraine.

It was with a light smirk that she took another drag and said: **"Knock yourself out."** before blowing the smoke into his face. The game was _on_.

As far as blending in went, the Watchmaker was playing in the top league. He owned a small shop between underground tunnels and mall segments. Visible enough to give off a vibe of exclusivity with how fancy the watches in the display were, but small enough to allow the actual underground clientele to easily access the channels they needed access to without having to blend in with a whole crowd of expensive watch enthusiasts. The man himself, somewhere in his thirties, looked the part with his rectangular glasses, the suit jacket and the short hair gave off an aura of elegance and seriousness. Doing business with him felt refreshingly professional. No wannabe mobster trying to intimidate her, no line of his inferring she was stupid by overplaying the hint; she told him she was looking to buy a watch, that she wanted access to a network in the East, and he calmly told her to come back tomorrow before closing. Nothing she could've gotten in fucking cold-war-frozen America back home could've compared to that. Not even Kurzfeld. Try as he might, he was a good colleague and boss, of course, keeping her in a position she actually enjoyed working - the field - but sometimes he liked the Godfather movie a little too much.

That done, though, Lorraine was looking at a rather lonely evening she'd have to drown in vodka unless she wanted to think about how, perhaps, James would still be alive if she'd been here. Over and over and over again. It wasn't gonna do her any good. She had to focus on the rest of her plan.

Her list of tasks was clearly laid out: She had to find the _List_ and Spyglass, and she had to find them first, or else they would have her head. She had to frame someone as Satchel so she wouldn't have to bleed for it - David, most likely. She had to take out Bakhtin to please not only the Russians, but herself also. And that all the while surviving in this city at the edge of what felt like a revolution waiting to happen. She wasn't blind nor deaf, she was watching the news each night, and she thought she had started to get a feeling for the people around here; the more time she stayed here, the more it became clear that she'd been right with her initial guess: Something was going to happen soon, Lorraine could literally taste it in the air. Here was to hoping it wouldn't suffocate her when it arrived.

She collapsed onto her bed once she's reached her room, a deep sigh escaping her lungs that she hadn't realized she'd been holding in ever since David had broken into her room. If he'd managed to once, he could likely come and go whenever he needed to, and she didn't allow herself to think about that for too long. He'd swallowed her bait, Lorraine was sure of it; he wouldn't realize that she'd figured out his plot until it was tragically too late. She _had to_ believe that, or else she'd get clumsy and trip up. 

And in this city and at this time, that kind of stumble could only end deadly.


	3. Berlin 1989 — 03. We Are Running Out Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine visits the Watchmaker and then has a gay breakdown in her hotel room.

As far as _blending in_ went, the Watchmaker was playing in the top league. Small shop between underground tunnels and mall segments. Visible enough to give off a vibe of exclusivity with how fancy the watches in the display were, but small enough to allow the _actual_ underground clientele to easily access the channels they needed access to without having to blend in with a whole crowd of expensive watch enthusiasts. The man himself, somewhere in his thirties, looked the part with his rectangular glasses, the suit jacket and the short hair instead of long one like so many had at the moment. Doing business with him felt refreshingly professional. No wannabe mobster trying to intimidate her, no line of his inferring she was stupid by overplaying the hint; she told him she was looking for an independent source, someone working off the grid - in code speak, of course - he mentioned he'd have a model she'd like ready in about two days, and she wished him a good night. Nothing she could've gotten in fucking cold-war-frozen America back home. Including with Kurzfeld. Try as he might, he was a good colleague, keeping her in a position she actually enjoyed working - the field - but sometimes he liked the Godfather movie a little bit too much.

That done, though, Lorraine was looking at a rather lonely evening she'd have to drown in vodka unless she wanted to think over and over and over again about how this was a horrible idea to be investing any thought in. She couldn't just run away with Delphine. She had to find _The List,_ and she had to find it first, or else they would have her head. She had to frame someone as Satchel so she wouldn't have to bleed for it. She had to take out whomever had shot James. All the while surviving in this city at the edge of what felt like a revolution waiting to happen. She wasn't blind nor deaf, she was starting to get a feeling for the people around here, or at least she believed to, and she could say one thing for certain: _Something_ was going to happen soon, she could taste it in the air. Here was to hoping it wouldn't suffocate her when it arrived.

Point was, though, she had enough on her plate as is, and this whole Spark thing was simply too much right now.

Which, of course, didn't mean it would just stop mattering. Of course not. Lorraine collapsed onto her bed once she's reached the hotel room, a deep sigh escaping her lungs that she hadn't realized she'd been holding in ever since meeting Delphine an hour or so prior.

This was a fucking mess. All of this. The timing especially. Couldn't it all have happened two or three weeks from now, when she would've been done with this? Why now? Why here? Lorraine's gaze skipped to the back of her marked hand which she held up and above her head now to look at it closer. The outer line seemed to have gained in thickness. No. No, wait, not exactly. Slowly sitting up, the spy let the overhead lamp illuminate her mark - no, the outer line was unchanged. Instead, the mark had started to fill with colour, a fragile, purple outline bleeding inwards.

In the unrealistic case of her still not believing this was real, this proved it without a doubt. Every mark, once the Spark had occurred, would start filling up with a rainbow, from purple on the outer edge to crimson directly in the middle. After that, the whole mark usually took on one specific colour signifying the strength and complexity of the relationship between the two or more soulmates, and it generally only grew richer: entire colour changes were rare and a sign of extreme change in the soulmates' relationship.

It was ridiculous, of course, but that purple line seemed to mock her mercilessly. It seemed to remind her that she had no control over any of this. That destiny didn't happen when it fit neatly into her schedule.

Lorraine sighed again, letting her hand crash against the mattress, and closed her eyes. 

Realistically speaking, she knew what she had to do. Meet with Delphine again. Tell her what she was and what kind of mission she was currently on. Explain how she was in danger if she stayed with her - for now, at least - and how they would have to wait for her to finish the job, before she could retire and move to some small town in the French countryside where the two would be able to spend the rest of their lives in peace with three cats and a bunch of sheep. The specifics of that last bullet point were still up to discussion, of course. Maybe Delphine wanted to become famous with the music Lorraine somehow assumed her to be making. She'd mentioned something about wanting to be a poet or a rockstar, before Lorraine had taken her leave to visit the watchmaker, after all. That'd be okay too. Lorraine felt strangely ready to be this woman's muse for the rest of eternity, the one she'd be writing all her songs about. It sounded like happiness in a place she never had assumed to find it. Warmth found amidst the cold of war. 

Whatever it was gonna be, though, timing was important, and she had to make that clear to Delphine - and hope the woman wouldn't freak out about her being a spy or something. That could also be a problem, of course. God, she hoped not. Because all the soulmate things aside, Delphine was also simply insanely attractive, blinking her dark lashes at her and smiling with painted black lips. And she swore, when Delphine had touched her arm, it'd been as if she'd been struck by lightning. 

When she did fall asleep after finally taking off her makeup and slipping into her Bowie shirt, there was only one thing she knew for certain: Whatever happened, whatever it would take, she had to protect this woman at all cost. And she realized in that moment that she wasn't afraid of dying any longer if it meant protecting _her_. 


End file.
